A man in a rain-flecked anorak glanced up from the rack of free handouts near the door. He was thirtysomething, tall and lean, with pale green eyes and close-cropped hair she suspected would have been sandy brown if it weren’t wet. He held up a copy of her newsletter. “The Care & Feeding of Old Books. Clever title. Your idea?”
Ashlyn frowned, perturbed by what felt like a deliberate brush-off. “Yes. Thank you. But I’m afraid—”
“Good photo of you too.”
“Thanks, but as I said, we’re closed. We’ll be open again at nine tomorrow if you’re looking for something special.”
The man returned the newsletter to its slot on the rack, pushed his hands into his pockets, and ran his eyes around the shop. He was younger than she’d first thought. A little uncomfortable in his skin but good-looking in a damp, uncombed way.
She forced a smile and tried again. “If you’re looking for something specific, a particular title or author, I’d be happy to take your name and number and give you a call tomorrow.”
He eyed her blandly. “You already have my number. We spoke a few days ago. I’m Ethan Hillard. I wasn’t sure what time you closed, but I took a chance. I was wondering if it would be possible to see the books.”
Ashlyn blinked at him, more than a little surprised. When they spoke on the phone, he hadn’t seemed the least bit interested. “See them?”
“All right, read them.”
His sudden change of heart set off alarm bells. Had he come to demand she return the books? “If you’re under the impression that the books are valuable, Mr. Hillard—”
“It’s Ethan,” he said, cutting her off. “And this isn’t about money. After we spoke the other night, the name Belle kept popping into my head and I couldn’t think why. And then yesterday I remembered. I have an aunt. She’s a great-aunt, actually. The sister of my paternal grandmother. Her real name is Marian, but I’m almost sure I remember the name Belle coming up in conversation between my parents.”
Ashlyn felt her pulse tick up. “Marian,” she repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of it on her tongue. “You think Belle was your aunt Marian?”
“I have no idea. But the books were in my father’s study when he died, and Belle isn’t exactly a common name, so I came. I thought if I had a look, I might be able to rule her in or out. There might be names I know—family names—or places I’d recognize.”
A surge of adrenaline prickled through Ashlyn’s veins at the thought that she might actually be on the verge of confirming her suspicions that Belle and Hemi were real. Maybe she could save him some time. “Do you recognize the name Goldie?”
Ethan thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“A woman?” Ashlyn prodded. “Owned a string of newspapers?”
Another shake of the head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. But then, I never knew my aunt, so I’m not likely to recognize the names of her friends.”
“I wouldn’t say Goldie was a friend of Belle’s, but her name appears in both books. Apparently, she was Hemi’s boss.”
Ethan stared at her blankly. “Who’s Hemi?”
Ashlyn’s excitement faded. She was hoping he would recognize the name. “He’s the author of Regretting Belle. That isn’t his real name. It’s just what Belle calls him. Short for Hemingway, because he’s a writer. Goldie appears to be a nickname as well, though I’m hoping to learn her identity soon. Once I do, I might be able to pin down Hemi’s name as well, since he wrote for one of her papers. How about Helene? Does that name jog any memories?”
“None. Who was she?”
“Belle’s mother. At least that’s the name she used. She’d be your great-grandmother, your father’s grandmother. She died when Belle was just a girl . . . by suicide, according to Belle. Apparently, the family did their best to sweep it under the carpet.” She paused, registering Ethan’s blank face. “None of this rings a bell?”
Ethan shook his head. “No, but it certainly sounds like the Mannings.”
Ashlyn blinked at him. “Who?”
“Us,” he answered simply. “The Mannings and the Hillards. My father was a Hillard. His mother was a Manning until she married. Do you have a name for Helene’s husband?”
Ashlyn shrugged. “She never says. Not even a nickname. At least not in the chapters I’ve read so far. All I know is he was loaded and something of a tyrant. There are times when Belle sounds almost afraid of him.”
Ethan studied her through narrowed green eyes. “You talk about her like you know her.”
Ashlyn looked away. How could she possibly explain it? “If you’d read them . . .”
“That’s why I’m here. To read them. Or at least have a look.”
“Right. Of course.” Ashlyn picked up the books from the counter and stepped around Ethan to lock the shop door. “There are a couple of good chairs at the back where we can read.”
“Oh, I don’t want to keep you. I was just going to take them with me.”
Ashlyn experienced a moment of panic at the thought of the books leaving the shop. What if he decided not to return them? “I’d prefer they stay here if you don’t mind. But feel free to stay as long as you like.”
Ethan seemed surprised, though whether that had to do with her offer to let him stay and read after hours or with her reluctance to let the books out of her possession, she couldn’t say. “All right,” he said, stripping off his anorak. “If you’re sure.”
Ashlyn led him to the back of the shop, the books cradled in the crook of her arm. Ethan lagged several steps behind, pausing now and then to survey the exposed brick walls and tin-tiled ceiling. “Quite a place you have here,” he said when he finally caught up. “My dad loved old haunts like this. Looks like it’s been here awhile. Is it a family business?”
Ashlyn thought of Frank and smiled. “No. Though I did sort of grow up here. The original owner used to let me hang around when I was a kid. He let me do chores in exchange for books. When I got older, I worked here through high school and college. When he died a few years ago, he left me the place.”
Ethan’s brows shot up. “That was generous.”
“He didn’t have any family. I was it.”
“Still.”
Ashlyn nodded. “He was a wonderful man. I still miss him.”
An awkward silence descended and for a moment they stood staring at each other, Ashlyn clutching the books, Ethan with his jacket slung over one shoulder. Finally, he pointed to her clasped arms. “I take it those are the books?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes. We can sit here. Take the chair on the left. It’s more comfortable.”
Ethan glanced at the chair, then back at Ashlyn. “I’m perfectly fine on my own if you have something you need to do.”
“It’s fine,” she replied, taking the chair closest to the window. “I was actually planning to read anyway.”
Ethan tossed his jacket over the back of the neighboring chair and sat. “Right. Thanks.”